


Your Ambitions Close / Your Enemy Closer

by the-bloody-masquerade (Devil_Latte)



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, LaCroix as a New York Camarilla Agent of Middling Rank, M/M, and fight scenes, dominate discipline/mind control, multi-chapter, now with sexual tension, pre-game, will eventually contain sexually explicit content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devil_Latte/pseuds/the-bloody-masquerade
Summary: In a desperate attempt to seize the prestige he feels has been withheld from him by the leaders of the Camarilla, Sebastian LaCroix embarks on a dangerous mission to infiltrate the lawless Anarch Free States to suss out information regarding one of its most legendary leaders. When a foolhardy misstep turns into a stroke of good luck, LaCroix makes a dangerous discovery: that he and Nines Rodriguez may have more in common than he's willing to admit.
Relationships: Sebastian LaCroix/Nines Rodriguez
Comments: 24
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to the writer dragonwrote for rekindling my drive to get my own Nines/LaCroix plot fic out there. Go check out their 'an enemy of my enemy' series if you want more Nines/LaCroix with a splash of political intrigue.  
> Also shout out to Fortheoneatopthecity for prereading and being very encouraging of my works in recent times. The reason I'm publishing at all is really thanks to her.

June 1999

Sebastian LaCroix slipped through the dusky streets of Downtown Los Angeles, heedless of the danger he courted as a lone agent of the Camarilla entrenched so distantly behind enemy lines. It was certainly not the Ventrue’s first time in Anarch territory, though he had to admit, the holds of New York’s loathsome Rabble seemed positively monastic compared to the raucous shamble that was the Free States of the west coast. He had spent no more than two days so far in this infernal city and as a proper order-loving Camarilla and Ventrue, the state of things made LaCroix’s blood boil.

However, he mused, should the little mission he had embarked upon prove successful, neither he, nor his Camarilla cohorts would have to suffer its existence much longer. Furthermore, he might finally claim the rightful prestige that the Court of New York had for so long vindictively withheld from him. Yes, much rode on his victory here, but far from apprehension, nothing but confidence roiled off his noble visage and he navigated the canyon-like streets of Los Angeles’s dingy underbelly. LaCroix turned a corner, supernaturally willing a vagabond out of his direct path with a word, and his destination came into view.

The establishment in question, The Last Round, was a shabby two-story building built in the shadow of an overpass. Its red brick façade had become dingy with age and filth and a large sign featuring a shotglass and revolver hung above the door. It was illuminated by too-bright sodium lamps, one of which flickered sickly. The entire area reeked of car exhaust, unwashed bodies and urine. Charming.

LaCroix carefully sidestepped a puddle of suspicious fluid near the bar’s stoop and pushed open the bottle-green door. The interior was just as offensive to the senses as the outside. Loud, heavy music thrummed the air, some uncultured pounding rubbish that the kine of this century were far too pleased with themselves for having created. This assault upon his ears was accented with the whoops of spirited patrons and the chitterings of a pinball machine on the far wall. What little light the hanging lamps provided was absorbed by the dark wood paneling and obscured by the haze of cigarette smoke.

To his right, a section of booths—none of them bussed—separated from the main floor by a half wall. LaCroix took a seat in plain view of the rest of the bar. In his charcoal-gray bespoke suit, slate shirt and burgundy silk tie with matching garnet cuff links, he was severely overdressed and could not have possibly been more out of place. He was counting on it.

He had been prepared to Awe those patrons surrounding him, should his visage alone not be enough to garner the attention he sought, but it proved unnecessary. He witnessed several patrons tap each other, indicate him, and comment inaudibly to their friends at his expense. One such patron was a surly-looking woman whose red hair was capped with a military beret. She was standing with a group playing darts in the bar’s far alcove when her friend, a burly black man with a shaved head, indicated LaCroix to her. Her eyes brightened with malice when she saw him, her red-tinted lips curving. She wasted no time in her approach.

“You lost, Mr. Dandy Man?” she cooed at him, planting her elbows on his table.

“Good evening,” LaCroix replied, adjusting his volume louder than he cared for in order to be heard.

“What’s a fat cat like you doing in here? The Gentrifiers’ Convention is down the street. Right next to the guillotine, can’t miss it.”

LaCroix’s expression flattened. “A pleasure...”

He hadn’t expected to hook someone quite so hostile right out of the gate and pondered if this might change his plans. Though the music made his first point of inference impossible, he knew what else to look for. At this distance, with her right up in his face, LaCroix could tell she was not breathing besides to supply her words, and the tell-tale point in her neck was not quivering with the pulse of life. A Kindred. And a stupid one at that. LaCroix decided that his plan would be decidedly easier to execute than he thought. 

He took hold of the steely pale glare she was forcing upon him and his own eyes flashed an electric blue as he imbued his next sentence with the power to Dominate. “You wish to help me obtain what I seek here.”

She tensed but for a moment, then slipped into the seat opposite him, resuming her candor without the combativeness. “What do you want?”

LaCroix smiled. It was so simple. “Tell me who the local leader of the Anarch Rebellion is.”

“Nines Rodriguez.”

That confirmed what he had been led to believe. He continued. “Very good. Tell me about him.”

“Big guy. Brujah like me. Got a lot of ideals and the balls the back them up. Behind the scenes he’s a pretty nice guy, gives really good hugs. But I once saw him punch a Sabbat straight through a brick wall, so, there’s that too.”

“Tell me his flaws.”

“He’s too soft on people sometimes. Kind of a peacenik when you get down to it. I think we oughta just pound ‘em, and he’s like ‘No, let’s hear what they have to say.’ If they’re not actively shooting at us, he always seems to hold out hope that he can sway ‘em to our side. Really annoying.”

“I see.” 

“He also won’t flirt back when I flirt with him. Kind of upsets me. Won’t flirt back with any of the girls, actually. Don’t think he’s into girls. That, and he doesn’t think I notice when he stares at some of the guys’ asses, but I do.”

“ _Really_?” LaCroix struggled to master his expression at this odd tidbit. 

“Thinks he’s being sneaky. Don’t know why he thinks he needs to hide it. No one here would mind. Being in the closet for your entire unlife would really suck.”

“Indeed,” LaCroix murmured, distracted a moment by the complicated history of emotions the sentiment had drawn up for him. He forced the thoughts back down. “Is he here right now?”

“Yeah, he’s upstairs, like he usually is.”

“Send for him.”

“ _HEY, SKELTER!”_

LaCroix nearly jumped at her outburst, loud enough to carry over the music to the corner where she had been playing darts.

The same man who had initially alerted her to LaCroix responded in kind with a booming voice. “Yeah?”

“Go get Nines!”

“What for?” He began walking towards them as if he intended to approach the booth.

“Now,” hissed LaCroix.

“NOW!” the woman repeated.

Skelter stopped, brow furrowed. Then he turned and headed for the stairs. 

“Excellent,” LaCroix said. He returned his gaze to the woman’s eyes, boring into them one more time, “You will forget our conversation up to this point. You believe you have only just arrived at my table.”

Amidst the fog that came over her, she got out of the booth. Then hunched over it to jeer at him again. “You lost, Mr. Dandy Man? The Gentrifiers’ Convention is down the street. Right next to the—”

“Yes, yes, you apparently thought that was quite clever, didn’t you?” He scoffed. “And I had so hoped to bear witness to the Anarchs’ legendry wit.”

At the mention of the faction, he could see her thought process grind to a halt and panic strike her face. Regaining her composure, she scowled at him with as much malice as ever. “Fuckin’ upstart,” she hissed. “Never seen you around before, and you strut into our territory like you own the place, acting like some Camarilla wannabe.”

He traded her a meaningful look.

“No way, you _are_ Camarilla?”

Her incredulity pleased him. He captured her gaze once more. “When Rodriguez arrives, you will vouch for me as an ex-Camarilla convert seeking asylum.”

“…The fuck?”

LaCroix’s eye twitched.

The woman, wholly unmoved, began to shout at him. “Who do you think you are, telling me what to do? Ex-Camarilla my ass! Once a Cammy, always a Cammy, and rotten to the core!” 

At this point in his nearly two hundred years of unlife, LaCroix was very unaccustomed to anyone younger than him successfully circumventing his will to Dominate, especially one who had already failed on several occasions. The very thought of it was maddening.

The woman slapped her palms on the table. “I’ve been waiting to get my hands on one of you Cammy shitbags for thirty years! I was Embraced too late to fight in the war to oust you bougie fucks, so I’m sure as hell going to make up for it now! What’s it gonna be? Want your ass-beating here or to-go?”

LaCroix narrowed his eyes, supremely irritated. At the very least, she did not seem aware of his attempt to Dominate her, whether that was a lucky side effect or she was unfamiliar with the Discipline as a whole. Ventrue and other Dominate-possessing clans were rare in Anarch territories after all.

Either way, this whelp had run her course, and he pondered how he might get rid of her. Her increasing volume was garnering attention even over the din of the bar. Before LaCroix had a chance to formulate his cutting reply, Skelter returned, an even more muscular man in tow.

“Hold up, Damsel,” the newcomer said, putting an arm out in a placating gesture. At the sight of him, LaCroix sat back in his booth, a self-satisfied grin playing on his lips. 

“Nines.” The woman, Damsel, straightened at the Anarch leader’s arrival. She stabbed an accusing finger at the still-seated LaCroix. “There’s a fucking Camarilla in here!”

“Camarilla, you say?” His tone was mild, but the decades of history that flashed through the Anarch leader’s eyes was not lost on LaCroix.

“ _Ex_ -Camarilla.” LaCroix placed a hand on his chest in introduction. “Charmed.”

“Not as charmed as my fist is going to be with your face!” Damsel interjected. “I say we kick his lily ass all the way back to the Ivory Tower.”

Rodriguez did not look moved. “I’ll take care of it, stand down.”

LaCroix let his eyes rove over the newcomer, making no attempt to be furtive. Blue eyes, tanned skin, short black hair and goatee. With several unique rings, and an intricate medallion corded around his neck, LaCroix figured he might be the sentimental sort. The Brujah were a clan of passion and brute strength and not an ounce of subtlety in that regard between the lot of them. The man had biceps thicker than LaCroix’s neck and the way the contours of his white muscle shirt fell beneath his open denim jacket indicated the rest of him was likely much the same fare.

In a momentary lack of discipline, LaCroix’s thoughts involuntarily flashed to what it might be like to be on the receiving end of that strength, the information Damsel had given him earlier providing context to the reverie. He immediately shunted the unwelcome thought away before it transformed his expression noticeably. “I take it you are Mr. Rodriguez,” he said by way of recovery.

The Anarch’s face soured at the formal address. “Yeah, and who wants to know?”

“No one of consequence. Just a curious traveler.”

An exhalation of frustration. “You know,” Rodriguez began, “I thought you Camarilla types were all about etiquette and manners. And yet you apparently know my name but won’t give me yours. Seems pretty rude if you ask me.” He rested his palms on the table and leaned in. A bid for intimidation. “I won’t ask you again.”

The Ventrue smiled evenly over his folded hands. “LaCroix,” he said.

“Even his name is pompous-ass Cammy garbage!”

“Settle down, Damsel,” Rodriguez cautioned, not removing his icy gaze to the visitor. “What is it you want, _LaCroix_?”

Despite the invitation to speak, LaCroix was cut off by Skelter. “You better not be some kind of Camarilla Herald,” he snarled. “SoCal’s been the territory of the Anarch Free States for fifty years and we’ll all be twice-damned to let all that go up in smoke without a fight.” 

“Perish the thought,” LaCroix said amiably. “I bear no love for the Camarilla. Though, despite the wonderful tales told of the freedom and equality practiced in the Anarch Free States, it has so far been a wonder if I might get a word in edgewise.”

“Mouthy piece of eurotrash,” Skelter spat.

“Enough,” Nines declared. 

Skelter continued despite this. “You know what, why are we even still talking to this guy? Get rid of the bastard, Nines.”

LaCroix watched this dissension with great interest, content to let it run its course rather than to interrupt.

Rodriguez’s lips were pressed into a hard line. He snapped his fingers at LaCroix. “You, stand up. We’re going outside.”

At this, Damsel cracked her knuckles with enthusiasm. “Alright, you hold him, I’ll punch.”

“No, you two stay inside.”

“What? Why”

“Do as I say, Damsel.”

“But I—”

Skelter placed a hand on Damsel’s shoulder. “Let him have his fun. He’ll give you the next one.”

She screwed up her face like she might yet protest. “Ugh, fine.” Flicking Skelter’s hand off her shoulder, she stamped toward the alcove with the dart board.

Skelter grinned. “Give ‘em hell, Nines. For the both of us.” He followed Damsel.

Nines, jaw set, said nothing as he watched his companions walk away. His eyes flicked to LaCroix as the latter stood.

“Lead the way, Mr. Rodriguez.”

The Anarch leader made the time for a put-upon sigh before turning around to leave. “Follow me.”

LaCroix obeyed without concern. He had Rodriguez figured out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so challenging to write, and I feel such an incredible sense of accomplishment actually getting it out, better late than never. The opening conversation went through so many iterations and remixes to try and navigate just the right type of nuance I was going for and provided the brunt of the challenge. 
> 
> I thought I could fit more than I should into this chapter, so part of my original vision for it has been sheared off to be the next chapter, meaning I should hopefully be able to update a little sooner than I did this time. (Also now planning on 4 chaps instead of 3 [but honestly might end up being 5 who the hell knows])
> 
> My ever-blossoming thanks to Fortheoneatopthecity for reading through this chapter multiple times, offering me advice and direction, and just generally being enthusiastic for this fic. Her support got me through one of the toughest dry spells I've encountered in a long time.

Rodriguez led LaCroix through the bar’s backroom, out a service door into the back alley. It was a balmy early summer night. The drone of the overpass nearby was a welcome change from the bar’s frenetic soundtrack, which even now seeped out of the walls, echoing into the gloomy alley.

Once outside, the Anarch leader retrieved a lighter and cigarettes from his back pocket and lit up. The Ventrue noticed Rodriguez pass a glance at him, perhaps assessing if the lighter’s flame had unsettled him. It hadn’t.

“Want one?” The Brujah proffered the pack.

This amused LaCroix. A similar tactic was employed by the more brazen courtiers of the Camarilla to root out the weak of will amongst their ranks. Many Kindred couldn’t work past their primal fear of flame to enjoy the activity, or even stand unflinching in the presence of one who did. Those who could tended to lord the feat over their peers. However, the practice had simply never appealed to LaCroix. 

“No,” he replied evenly.

Rodriguez replaced the pack in his pocket, nothing in his body language betraying whether the offer had been genuine or a shrewd test of character. He then leaned against the building and took a long drag of the cigarette. LaCroix simply stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Rodriguez, waiting. A moment passed.

“I want to apologize somewhat for my coterie,” Rodriguez said slowly. “I’m no more warm to the idea of a Camarilla in our territory than they are, but you at least deserve the chance to speak. Just tell me what you want.” Another pull. A coil of smoke stretched up toward the dark sky. “That, or get the hell out of here. Despite Damsel’s shit-talking, I’m not going to beat you up. Unless you give me a good reason to.”

“How generous,” LaCroix said. 

“So what’s you’re deal?”

Under the influence of Dominate, the Brujah woman Damsel had already supplied much of the information LaCroix had sought tonight. Witnessing the dynamic between this Nines Rodriguez and his subordinates had been equally telling. Emboldened by his good fortune, LaCroix had been spinning a tale in his mind that he hoped would allow him to unravel yet more information from the as-yet astonishingly peaceable Anarch leader.

“Your clemency is most admirable. Especially—if you’ll forgive me for saying so—after the sentiment expressed by your coterie. I endure much the same fair where I come from.” LaCroix sighed, a silly habit for one who did not need to breathe, but useful for inspiring pathos in the listener. “Night after night of petty slander from those who see my station before my ability. Nothing but endless bureaucracy and backstabbing. The Camarilla is rife with honorless thugs who would sooner cut down a rival than commemorate loyal achievement—” The genuine bitterness of his tone surprised even himself. LaCroix had to remind himself he was only acting. Recollecting himself, he moved forward into the true fiction of his act. 

“I have grown tired of it. Surely a better system, a better _existence_ can be found. I wanted to investigate the other side of the fence, per se, to see if I may be swayed.” This of course, was a lie. Though he had his gripes about the inexplicable disfavor he found himself combatting on a nightly basis in New York, he was not such a simpleton to think that the Anarchs could offer anything better. “Despite my hopes, the Anarchs of the east coast have all be neutered by their Camarilla overlords. I am here to witness the Anarch Revolt in its prime. Your subordinates leave much to be desired, but you,” he eyed Rodriguez with a fanged smile, “you interest me greatly, ‘Nines’ Rodriguez.”

Rodriguez was unmoved by this flattery. “…not my subordinates.”

“Hm?”

“Damsel and Skelter. Not my subordinates. We’re all equals in the Free States.”

LaCroix had to steel himself to prevent a guffaw from escaping his mouth. How ridiculous. It was in the nature of all things—living and dead—to seek to lord themselves over others and defend their posts jealously against their lessers. Even if a society based on equality weren’t just a pipe dream, LaCroix would reject it out of hand. If there was no rank to climb, no more offices to aspire to, what justification could there possibly be to all the suffering he had endured thus far? To have struggled so hard, only to stand in line—as equals!—amongst those who had not struggled, those who were unskilled, untested, unfit. It would be too maddening to bear.

“Of course,” he replied evenly. “Equals. Something I’ll have to get used to.” He reoriented himself on the path to his goal. “Though I must say, your cohorts certainly seem to pay you homage.”

“So, you think I’m the leader here?”

“Am I incorrect?”

Rodriguez gave an ironic huff of laughter. “We’re Anarchs. Corrupt top-down leadership is usually something we leave to you Camarilla.”

“But you have Barons. Are you not the Baron of Los Angeles?”

Nines faltered. “I don’t concern myself much with titles.”

What an interesting admission. LaCroix could not help himself from pressing forward. “Is it a title that the other Barons do not wish you to have?”

“You know—” Nines stabbed out his cigarette against the brick wall, dirt audibly scraping beneath his heel as he rounded on LaCroix— “you’re awfully nosy for someone supposedly wanting to start a new life. I’d almost think you were sniffing around for the licks in the Ivory Tower.” Rodriguez had left the wall and stood before LaCroix, scrutinizing him with a critical eye, looking down on him from his superior height.

LaCroix stood tall with the discipline of an infantryman, but inwardly he winced. He’d drawn too deep. However LaCroix sensed that Rodriguez was not yet made up on the matter; his statement had not been delivered as a damning accusation. LaCroix’s cover hadn’t been blown yet, though he ought to be more dexterous in his questioning from here on.

“Forgive me,” LaCroix said mildly. “I harbored the notion that information flowed freely among the Anarch Free States and I confess I became too enamored with the prospect.”

“You’re saying you think we’re _simple_.”

LaCroix frowned at Rodriguez’s assertion. “I’m _saying_ you have caught me in an awkward transition from one culture to another. For it you have my apologies. I will not be so crude again.”

As LaCroix was speaking, Nines came to bear over him, placing a forearm on the brick wall above LaCroix’s head and leaning in. Intending to stand firm, LaCroix found himself forced to flatten his back against the wall behind him, or else Rodriguez may have pressed his forehead into LaCroix’s. LaCroix at first took this invasion of space as a bid for intimidation, as the Brujah had succeeded in getting LaCroix to yield ground. LaCroix was not cowed in the slightest but the way the Brujah gazed down at him through dark lashes with such strikingly blue eyes, so close now, caused LaCroix to almost trip over his own words.

“Collection of information was once a way of survival for me,” he continued, softer, disjointed. “In my enthusiasm I did not think to mask my curiosity under seven layers of decorum and subterfuge as I may have in the Courts of the east.”

“Uh-huh,” Rodriguez said. “Keep runnin’ your pretty mouth.”

“’Pretty?’” LaCroix nearly guffawed. This was ridiculous. What could possibly be Rodriguez’s aim? He had to admit that his interest in Rodriguez had been piqued upon the reveal that he likely also enjoyed the company of men. LaCroix would hardly be acting against his nature, reciprocating this inexplicable flirtation. A wry smile crossed LaCroix’s lips. “Shall I take that as a compliment?”

A flicker of a smirk appeared on the Anarch leader’s face. “Gonna let you in on a little secret,” he intoned, leaning into LaCroix’s ear.

The bizarre sensuality of the gesture held LaCroix rapt.

“I’m not as stupid as you think.” Rodriguez’s other hand had snaked its way to LaCroix’s collar, and at this, he grabbed a fistful of the fabric and pushed against his sternum, effectively pinning him against the brick.

The forceful gesture had taken LaCroix aback, but despite the Brujah’s boundless strength, the intent had not been to injure him. It was high time LaCroix Dominated the brute, but he stowed the urge, finding sudden intrigue in this new position. It was almost disappointing to know that the Brujah hadn’t been flirting with him in earnest, but he reasoned, it was best to avoid such distractions and continue to pursue his goal unfettered.

“That was all a bunch of bullshit, wasn’t it?” Rodriguez was saying. His phrasing, the unnecessary interrogative. “ _Wasn’t it?”_ Rodriguez had no idea what he believed.

“I’m starting to think Damsel was right about you,”

 _‘Starting to think_.’

“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t crush you into dust right now.”

This continued hesitation was telling. A man truly prepared to kill in cold blood would not entreat his enemy to justify his existence to him.

By his tone, his phrasing, his hesitation, he’d revealed his hand entirely to LaCroix. He was at the Brujah’s mercy in body but perhaps not in spirit. There had not been a point in the conversation in which LaCroix had been more comfortable in his position than he was now.

LaCroix gazed up at the grimacing Brujah with a cat-like look of satisfaction. “Shall I call your bluff, Mr. Rodriguez?” He flicked his eyes down to the offending fist upon his lapels. “I do not believe this is the kind of man you are.”

“Oh?” Nines sneered. “Why don’t you enlighten me to just what kind of man I am?”

“To toss me out now would make you a hypocrite to your own cause.”

“Hypocrite?” A look of disgust appeared on the Brujah’s face. With a rough shove, he unhanded LaCroix. Perhaps it was a ploy, trying to mask with revulsion his fear that LaCroix was right. Regardless, his disgust quickly melted into a snide smile. “Well, takes one to know one, doesn’t it? You come here spinning tails of struggle and ‘woe is me.’ As if a Cam like you could know anything about strife.” 

Smoothing down his collar, LaCroix bristled at the assessment. “Do not presume to know my experience!” 

There was a flash of a smirk from the Anarch leader and LaCroix realized his misstep. His outburst had vindicated Rodriguez. Damn him!

This conversation was spinning wildly out of control, and it was in part due to LaCroix’s own carelessness. He had allowed the Brujah to get under his skin, incite him to rage, and his entrails writhed at the loss of control. LaCroix needed to mitigate the situation and quickly. To erase the Brujah’s memory and escape now would be to set ablaze a very useful bridge. He needed a change of topic, even a Domination. What exchange would possibly quell this animosity now?

While LaCroix’s mind spun, Rodriguez continued. “You wouldn’t last one night out here. No one to wait on you hand and foot. Born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Never worked a day in your life. You upper class fucks are all the same. Things only got easier once you were embraced, didn’t they?”

Despite the amusement the Anarch leader had displayed once his first round of jabs had successfully pierced LaCroix’s armor, he seemed to grow more heated here, more serious. “Money, power, whatever you want, it just falls right into your lap, doesn’t it?”

And despite LaCroix’s awareness of the situation, he felt himself pulled back in, and the urge to verbally lash back could not be avoided. “I’ll not suffer another word of slander from you! You know nothing of me, the things I’ve been through. What I’ve sacrificed.”

With a ferocity that had been absent in his previous gesture, Rodriguez snatched ahold of LaCroix’s lapels and slammed him into the brick wall behind. A sudden change like no other came over Rodriguez, stopping LaCroix’s words in his throat. His eyes became twin beacons of blue fire. “Don’t you dare talk to _me_ about sacrifice!”

Fix this! How? What tact could he possibly take to ensure an enduring path between the two of them, by which LaCroix might ferry the secrets he so desperately needed? Some kind of connection, an enduring relationship. . . Mind blurred with panic, LaCroix blurted out with Power the first thing that came to his mind:

“In spite of everything, you’re falling in love with me!”

Silence. His own words echoed back to him. LaCroix’s blood had turned to ice.

What a brainless thing to say! And how deplorably Toreador! Oh, dear Ventru, he’d fucked up. What had possessed him—? He needed to erase the Brujah’s memory NOW.

Nines stared at LaCroix wordlessly with an inscrutable expression, stunned, as if LaCroix had landed a blow upon him. His grip on the Ventrue’s lapels slackened.

Good God, had it actually worked?

LaCroix did not get the chance to further assess the situation—a metallic _klink_ rang out from the pavement nearby. Both Kindred’s eyes were drawn to the source.

“What is th—”

LaCroix’s query was cut short as Nines shoved him aside, sprinting for the metal object and punting it over the fence.

The grenade exploded in the air with a shower of sparks and flame. Somewhere nearby, a cackle rang out.

Rodriguez ripped his gun out of the holster under his arm and leveled it at a figure who had appeared at the neck of the alley connecting the back of the bar to the main street. The mad-eyed figure barreled towards Rodriguez, fangs brandished. One well-placed headshot rendered the Kindred a pile of ash.

“Sabbat!” he yelled to LaCroix, who yet stood in the depth of the alley. A handful of figures, better armed than their packmate, appeared by way of the bottleneck side street and from the opposite side of the chainlink fence serving as one of the back-alley’s borders. Rodriguez wasted no time making gifts of bullets for the newcomers.

LaCroix was almost glad for the distraction from the utterly botched scenario he’d wound himself into. Almost. The ricochet of a bullet off the brick wall near his head sobered his celebration. LaCroix retrieved the small but high caliber pistol he kept in a side holster beneath his jacket and racked the slide.

“Glad to see you’re packing heat,” Nines called back, “Now let’s see if a fat cat like you can actually shoot.”

In reply, LaCroix shot a bullet over Rodriguez’s shoulder, striking a Sabbat shovelhead in the forehead, the high caliber sending him careening to the ground.

LaCroix glared at Rodriguez. “ _Va te faire foutre!”_

Rodriguez gave a loud bark of laughter. “That’s more like it!”

No sooner were the gun-wielding assailants taken care of, than a Gangrel came sailing over the chainlink fence. The half-Protean beast grabbed hold of the sill of the second story window and attempted to throw it open as it scrabbled for footing. 

“Shit!” Nines winced and took aim, but before he could pull off the shot, with a crash the window exploded from the inside. Skelter leaned out, arms transformed up to the elbows into vicious claws, and seized the Sabbat in a headlock. With a savage twist he parted its spine and neck before it even had a chance to yowl in pain. The limp body fell to the ground, bursting in a plume of ash as it hit. 

“Nines!” Skelter yelled. “Get out of here! We think they’re after you!”

“How many?”

“Can’t say; they’re coming through the front too.”

“Shit.”

“We’ve got it covered. They see you here, they might be encouraged to send reinforcements. Get going.”

Rodriguez nodded. “Give ‘em hell, Skelter.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

Rodriguez turned to LaCroix. “You’re welcome to stay here. Or…” He tossed his chin to indicate the chainlink fence, then, in a single bound, leapt clear of it to the other side. He then turned back to invite a response from the Ventrue. 

LaCroix could see plainly that this was a test, one that he did not care to participate in, but if Rodriguez’s coterie mate had spoken the truth, LaCroix would encounter nothing but chaos should he follow the mouth of the alley back to the front of the building and would find no ostensible “allies” down that path.

LaCroix decided to follow the Anarch leader. He did not however, possess the talent to clear the fence as Rodriguez had. Gritting his teeth, LaCroix holstered his gun and grappled onto the fence, tackling it like a common soldier.

He felt the back seam of his suit jacket split as he flipped over the top of the fence. After he landed and righted himself, he bitterly tore off the jacket, retrieved a few possessions from its pockets, and threw it aside. He then unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed up his sleeves before drawing his pistol again. 

LaCroix waited for some smart comment from the Brujah at this display but to his surprise, Rodriguez regarded him seriously. “I can lead you out of this mess. As long as you don’t put a bullet in the back of my head.”

“I too, would like to live through this night.”

“Truce, then.”

“Truce.”

“Good. Watch the back.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this chapter certainly emerged a little quicker than the last one. In all honesty, this fic has been some kind of outlined for most of the year, but only slightly written in advance of posting. Thanks for your patience and I hope you can stick it out to the end.   
> Now get ready for some fight scenes with a couple of corny romantic tropes thrown in because this is fanfiction after all. ;)  
> And yeah, she gonna be 5 chaps now. Yay.

LaCroix was utterly loath to take orders from rabble and an Anarch no less, but it had been a very long time since he had found himself in a street war with Sabbat. LaCroix was, of course, no stranger to combat; he’d come into unlife as a decorated soldier after all, but even the most ruthless of human combatants could not be compared to the savagery of a Sabbat warpack. During the few encounters LaCroix had had with such foes in the streets of New York City, his survival could be attributed to a certain Nagloper ally and erstwhile friend.

The Ventrue did not fancy his chances of survival alone. Though he was now confronted with a unique opportunity to assassinate the Anarch leader and pin it on other parties, that strategy had never been part of his mission, and it would be idiocy to turn his back on Rodriguez’s aid in this situation. If he had to, LaCroix figured he could stow his pride long enough to preserve his own life. However, LaCroix was baffled that the Anarch leader had offered to help him at all and not simply abandoned him to his own fate.

LaCroix could not help but consider if the Brujah’s benevolence was in fact a fortunate consequence of his ill-conceived Dominate command. It had been an absurd move, and it shouldn’t have worked. LaCroix knew that. But . . . No. This was not the time to speculate. Danger was imminent.

They had set off, Rodriguez in the lead, sprinting through a tangle of rusting, grime-covered side streets. “Got an emergency car parked a few blocks away. If we can make it there, we’re clear,” Rodriguez was saying. In that moment, another Kindred slammed into him from the side.

The hulking Sabbat brute had appeared from a crossroads in the alleyway, bowling Rodriguez to the ground. The two began to grapple on the street, a flurry of fangs, fists, and inhuman snarls.

LaCroix fell back, covering the fury of movement with his gun before being torn away by the appearance of a ghostly pale Kindred who screeched and barreled towards him with a lead pipe raised over her head. Using the split second before her descent to strategize, LaCroix sidestepped the Kindred, grabbed her shoulder and swept her leg, shoving her to the ground where he planted the barrel of his gun on her forehead and ended her unlife.

The brief spectacle of her disintegration distracted him from another Sabbat who tackled him from the side, sending him rolling across the pavement, gun skittering away into the darkness. Rising to his knee, LaCroix saw the stout Sabbat brandishing a conspicuously bejeweled dagger, and with a gleam of her squirrely eyes, charged.

LaCroix lunged for the nearby discarded metal pipe and used it to parry the frenetic Sabbat’s strike. LaCroix’s swing was powerful enough to completely disengage the Sabbat, allowing him the time to rise and take up a defensive stance. His gun lay somewhere in the gloomy murk, but he did not trust his chances casting about for it without giving his opponent far too generous an opening. The pipe was a poor substitute for a proper saber, but LaCroix had made do with far less in his time as a soldier.

She fell upon him again with several more savage strikes, LaCroix parrying each with the improvised weapon, feeling the awful resonance of the metal vibrate up his arm with each blow.

After the brief but frenzied salvo, the Sabbat backed off several paces, LaCroix having successfully deflected each slash.

His eyes flicked over the shoulder of his Sabbat combatant. Noticing the outcome of the other skirmish he made a plan. He called up his Presence and circled her a few paces to the right, not intending to daunt her, but to make sure that her attention would stay focused on him for the duration.

Instead of dismay, LaCroix perceived glee upon his combatant’s face. She squared her shoulders and took up an exaggerated parody of his duelist’s stance before rearing up for another wild strike.

Rodriguez, having emerged victorious from his bout, grabbed hold of the small Sabbat from behind. She had been caught completely unawares, and with a savage headlock and a crunch, she was dust.

Rodriguez brushed the ashes from his shirt and jacket. “Smart thinking,” he said. “Letting me do the dirty work.”

LaCroix felt his hackles raise and several sharp retorts occurred to him, but instead chose the path of serenity. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

“Not wrong.”

LaCroix retrieved his gun. A commotion behind them alerted them to a fresh pack of Sabbat approaching from the direction they had come. The group, seven or eight strong, writhed with malice. Their sights were set on the two unlikely Kindred allies.

“Fuck,” Rodriguez hissed, raising his gun.

LaCroix searched the gloomy alley for a simpler solution. He was rewarded with the sight of a large metal duct running down the length of a nearby building several yards ahead of them, closer to them than to the encroaching warpack. An imperfect seam near the base caused a portion of its contents to whistle out in a small but furious jet. Steam. Perfect.

“No, here.” LaCroix placed his improvised saber in the Brujah’s hands and indicated the rusting duct. “Break that open.”

There was the barest moment of insubordination on Rodriguez’s part before he understood LaCroix’s plan. He took the pipe and set off with a running start. Several of the Sabbat took this as a challenge and rushed forward to greet Rodriguez. They were mere feet away when Rodriguez bashed the weathered duct with a great Potence-infused overhand blow. The Brujah knew to immediately back off as the great roiling cloud of scalding air erupted from the burst duct. Several Sabbat with no such forewarning were caught dead center in the blast and screamed in fright and pain.

Wasting no time, LaCroix and Rodriguez took off down the alley; the cloud was opaque enough to cover their escape, though one Celerity-wielding Sabbat was able to breach the hazard. This Kindred was quickly picked off by a well-placed headshot courtesy of Rodriguez.

Rodriguez once again resumed the lead and expertly wove a path through the maze-like back roads. Several blocks later, they emerged onto a main avenue in a derelict part of the warehouse district. A parking lot stood behind a mostly collapsed chain link fence and beyond it a single pale green van was parked.

They picked their way around the dilapidated fence and Rodriguez pulled ahead, gaze fixed upon the van.

LaCroix noticed something on the far side of the lot, and in the split second that followed, dove for Rodriguez, tackling him to the ground. As they fell, a searing pain pierced LaCroix’s side. Hitting the pavement, he found himself momentarily stunned and immobile. Rodriguez was roused to action before LaCroix could move, and the Ventrue felt himself being hauled up against the side of the car for cover. He barely noticed the quick back-and-forth of gunfire between the Sabbat gunman he’d spotted across the parking lot and Rodriguez, crouched beside him, using the hood of the car for cover.

Rodriguez returned to him after apparently dispatching the gunman. He placed a hand on the Ventrue, who was doubled over leaning against the car clutching his side. “He get you?”

A pained groan was the response.

“Bad?”

LaCroix shifted, feeling the squelch of his bloodied clothes. There was a tiny, unyielding pinprick of pain lodged deep inside his entrails, just above his atrophied liver. An actual thorn in his side, the offending bullet. “Damned thing’s still inside of me!”

Rodriguez rocked back on his heels and looked about the parking lot, as if reacting to some noise that LaCroix had not noticed. “We need to get out of here.”

He rose and LaCroix heard the shattering of glass and a click of the car lock. With a great deal of pain, LaCroix attempted to push himself to his feet, but never got the chance before Rodriguez returned and scooped him up in his arms. LaCroix’s stomach fluttered at his sudden weightlessness. It was clear the feat was nothing for Rodriguez and LaCroix was distracted a moment in awe.

Quickly returning to his senses, LaCroix then began to wriggle like an ornery cat. “What are you doing? Unhand me at once!”

Rodriguez ignored him, carried him around the car, deftly opened the passenger side door and deposited him in place. LaCroix was left in several awkward seconds of silence, pained, hackles still raised, but alone and unharried. Rodriguez appeared at the driver’s side, brushed the broken glass from the seat and got in. The keys were in the glove compartment.

The ignition chugged and for a single sickening moment LaCroix thought the car might not start. When it did, Rodriguez slammed it into reverse and made a jarring K-turn before tearing out of the parking lot. LaCroix winced in pain as he was jostled around the cabin but bit his lip to keep from voicing any more discomfort.

The first several minutes elapsed in a tense silence as Rodriguez weaved through interlocking blocks of decrepit warehouses, on high alert for yet more Sabbat prowling about. When he finally pulled onto the freeway on-ramp, there was a figurative sigh from them both.

LaCroix turned his attention to his bullet wound. It was still oozing blood despite the pressure he’d been applying with his hands. It and the expenditure of his blood throughout the night on Disciplines, from his handful of Dominate commands at the Last Round to the supernatural Fortitude that was mitigating the damage done to his insides left him feeling somewhat fatigued. Despite this, he focused his vitae around the wound, seeing if he could repair some of the damage, perhaps will his flesh to expel the bullet. The quick stab of pain as his entrails began to knit around the foreign object stopped him in his tracks. His resolve faltered and he hissed in agony.

“What?” Rodriguez asked.

“I can’t… I can’t heal with this fucking bullet in me!” LaCroix pulled aside the hem of his shirt and began to claw at the wound.

“Hey!” Rodriguez barked, snatching up LaCroix’s wrist. “Don’t do that!”

“Watch the damn road!” LaCroix yelled back.

Rodriguez gave LaCroix’s wrist a warning squeeze and returned his hands to the wheel. “We’ll take care of it. Just sit tight for now.”

Sullenly, LaCroix obeyed.

In the meantime, he dug the small flask he’d salvaged from his suit coat out of his pocket. Unable to drink from just anyone as a Ventrue, a flask of one’s desired vintage was as good a workaround as any for a dire thirst. Pained, fatigued, and pissed off, LaCroix began to chug it.

Rodriguez glanced at the Ventrue: head tossed back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drained the contents of the flask in one very long pull. The Brujah said nothing but his eyebrows turned up in amusement.

Once he finished, LaCroix gasped his satisfaction and tossed the empty flask to the floor. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded, no longer possessing the patience for tact.

Rodriguez’s lips pressed into a hard line as he deliberated his answer. “There’s a safehouse we can go to. Patch you up. Lay low.”

“Your haven?” LaCroix asked, incredulous. Was the Anarch leader offering to house him now? Unbelievable.

“That’s not what I said,” Rodrigues replied with a slight edge. His lips drew back over his teeth as he spoke, a look of embarrassment hidden within a sneer. “You want, I can throw you out into a ditch somewhere too.” 

This night had already been several forms of ridiculous. Being offered sanctuary by a man who had not an hour before had him pinned against a wall in a fury may as well be on the docket. “Far be it from me to reject such charity,” LaCroix scoffed.

There was a pregnant pause while Rodriguez considered saying something. “You took a bullet for me,” he pointed out quietly.

At this, LaCroix was awash with an icy flush of discomfort. His mouth opened to explain himself, but no words came out.

Rodriguez chuffed. “You about to tell me that you suddenly rushed up, knocked me to the ground and saved me from a gunshot on accident?”

LaCroix wavered a bit longer before deciding that no answer would be the best choice, given that he himself could not even rationalize what had possessed him to act in that moment.

“Shit, LaCroix.” Rodriguez gave a huff of laughter. “It wouldn’t even have killed me. What the hell were you thinking?”

Insult to injury. LaCroix dipped his chin, smoldering with embarrassment.

If Rodriguez noticed this, he chose not to further antagonize the Ventrue. Instead, he instilled his voice with gentle authenticity. “Well, whatever the reason, you have my thanks. If you’ll let me, I want to do something about it.”

LaCroix turned away to look out the window, not able to bear one more second of Rodriguez’s cloying benevolence. He watched the streetlamps race past and gave an over-dramatic put-upon sigh. “ _Fine._ If it will satiate that ridiculous sense of chivalry you Brujah so love to cultivate.”

He could hear the amusement in Rodriguez’s voice. “We’ll be there in twenty.”

LaCroix’s thoughts again turned to his foolhardy Dominate command, reasoning that this inexplicable charity had to be a symptom of his far-fetched success. Such warmth was, after all, not something called up _naturally_ in a Kindred. He didn’t know what to do with an Anarch compelled to love him.

 _Just use him. Let him give you his resources, use the opportunity to pry more secrets from his bleeding heart. This weak spot in his armor is a gift._ But this mission had already gone so far off the rails. LaCroix was tired, and this extended ruse was far from what he'd planned. He was coming to the slow realization that he’d bitten off more than he could chew, taken on a role he was not suited for, and it was a revelation that infuriated him.

And then there was the matter of the bullet in his torso. Even now, in the privacy of his own mind he could not rationalize his motivation. Rodriguez had spoken the truth, he likely would have faired no worse than LaCroix with a bullet in his stomach. For a brief moment, LaCroix rationalized that since he was skilled in Fortitude, it would have been a logical conclusion to make in the moment that he would have been the more ideal, _efficient_ candidate to receive the shot, but sullenly conceded that Rodriguez’s base physique probably naturally accounted for all of LaCroix’s supernatural Fortitude, and he couldn’t be sure that the Brujah hadn’t learned that discipline himself from someone else.

Which left him with what? Truly an accident? Or an alternative that LaCroix was not comfortable facing.

The rest of the car ride proceeded in silence, and LaCroix was haunted by the vestigial remains of his humanity all the way.


End file.
